


Deck the Halls (of the Bunker)

by TheYmp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas Crack, Christmas in the Bunker, Humor, M/M, Mistletoe, Season/Series 10, Sidhe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 09:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3169277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheYmp/pseuds/TheYmp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's decision to deck the halls of the bunker, with decorations he'd found in a sub-basement storeroom, leads to some unusual and unlikely consequences - not least Dean's sudden agreement to host Crowley's reception of weird and decidedly not wonderful guests.</p><p>Written for the 2014 Crowley’s Covert Christmas Fic Exchange at SPN_BigPretzel on LiveJournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deck the Halls (of the Bunker)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain. No harm or infringement intended.
> 
> The prompt was “Crowley decides to throw a lavish Christmas party, and Sam, Dean, and Cas aren't the only familiar faces to attend. Dirty Santa, drinking, and various Christmas-themed party games are also on the menu”.
> 
> The magnificent art to accompany this is by Amberdreams

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/15892092108)

Dean grumbled under his breath in complaint and tried to rollover in an attempt to recapture the warm comfort of the dream. It flickered just at the edge of his consciousness, but in a good way, not a flashback to Hell way. He shuddered as the cold air got to his side and he tried to bury himself deeper but -- too late -- the thought of Hell had already ruined it.

The noise that had awoken him -- a sound likened only to the choking death screams of the damned -- echoed once more through his room, and so with a heavy sigh he pulled himself from the tangled grip of the twisted sheets.

Finally out from his modern-day version of the Pit, the god-awful gargling was more easily recognizable as Sam's attempt at a rendition of ' _Jingle Bells'_. For one brief, guilty moment, Dean regretted his childhood attempts at somewhat less-deserving examples of positive encouragement in Sammy's upbringing. Boy, hadn't they all been relieved when the whole post-voice-breaking choir phase had been over. Mainly because the people in the next room had kept calling the cops over the alleged animal abuse.

Shaking his head at the memories, Dean quickly and efficiently made the bed with military precision and sheets so tight you could bounce a penny on them. It was sometimes just the small things that made a difference, he thought to himself with the satisfaction of a job well done, rather than the big gestures - it was strange to think that it had been nearly fifteen years since living with his dad. Maybe the old ways were the best?

Despite the thickness of the bunker's internal doors, it was clear that Sam was still in full swing of holiday carol mode. Not wanting to put it off any longer, Dean braced himself and opened the door, only for the bulk of the great Sasquatch to fall into the room almost on top of him.

"Oh, hey, you're up," gabled Sam excitedly.

Dean pulled himself back to his feet and made a show of dusting himself down. "Well I am now," he muttered. "So what's got you all excited?" he asked.

Sam ran a hand through his long, thick hair that looked even more windswept than usual given that they lived in a hermetically sealed, underground bunker in the middle of nowhere.

"I decided it was time I got round to archiving the contents of one of the vaults," Sam started to explain.

Dean stopped him. "Hang on, we're talking Men of Letters here, not the Bobby Singer 'pile 'em high' method - weren't they organized already?"

Sam scrunched his nose up in a manner that made him look all of twelve, and flopped himself down on the bed. Dean tried not to wince at the impact this had on either the creaking bed springs or the pristine appearance of the sheets.

"Yeah, I guess they had a rudimentary system, but the cross-referencing really leaves something to be desired, and I can't believe they..." He trailed off after noticing Dean's stern expression. "Anyway, I was checking one of the sub-store rooms and, get this; it was completely filled with Christmas decorations!"

Dean raised an eyebrow when Sam didn't continue. "So?"

"So?" asked Sam, incredulously. "So? We _never_ do Christmas, but this time it's practically handed to us on a plate!"

"Yeah, we don't do Christmas," quipped Dean, "it's a _tradition_." He felt a little guilty -- okay, _a lot_ guilty -- to rain on his brother's parade, but surely Sam had learned by now that nothing good ever worked out for them?

"I thought that maybe we'd start a _new_ tradition," said Sam sulkily. Dean barely stopped himself from snorting at the full-on pout his brother had going.

Sam's stomach took the silence that followed as its cue to grumble and growl at both great length and impressive volume.

Chuckling, Dean guided his brother to the door. "Okay, let's talk about this over breakfast."

Sam pulled another face, but allowed himself to be led, before pausing at the door. "Can you do those blueberry pancakes again?"

Dean rolled his eyes good naturedly, but nodded. "Yeah, but maybe save a couple for me this time?" he laughed, with a gentle punch to his brother's arm. He narrowed his eyes as he noticed something tacked to the top of his doorframe.

"What's that?" he asked with a hint of iron in his voice, although he already knew the answer.

Sam glanced up -- well, more to the side really -- before peering down at Dean with a smug expression. "It's mistletoe... _See_ , I told you I thought you needed glasses."

"I can see what it is, dumbass," Dean snapped. "I meant, what's it doin' here?"

"Oh, well, I started decorating already," replied Sam, brightly.

Dean rubbed his face with hand. "There's only you and Cas here," he explained tonelessly, "and if you think I'm going to kiss you, you've got another think coming!"

Sam arched an eyebrow and gave a mocking smirk. Dean shoved him through the door. "Sheesh, Sammy, I wish you'd get it through that thick head of hair of yours that if anyone's going to get a run of bad luck from not following some stupid tradition it's gonna be us!"

Neither brother noticed the spooky music playing in response to Dean's comment as the soundtrack to real life isn't audible to most humans. Oblivious to the dire foreshadowing, Sam just laughed and they both made their way, constantly bickering, to the kitchen.

Nor did they notice the ghostly glowing of the white mistletoe berries.

~#~

There was an unexpected guest sitting at the head of the table waiting for them when they arrived in the dining room.

"Hello boys," said Crowley in his usual whiskey burned tones that always seemed to be on the wrong side of mocking. He threw both arms out in an exaggerated pose of surprise, almost as if he expected the Winchesters to run up and hug him like some kind of long lost family member. _Yeah, there's definitely a creepy uncle vibe going on_ , Dean chuckled to himself, conveniently refusing to think about the whole 'Mark of Cain bringing me back as a demon' episode. _Still, I was drunk most of the time_ , Dean countered defensively until he realized he was arguing with himself.

"What are you doing here?" Dean growled, deciding to take out his internal angst. Sam was always going on and on at him about vocalizing his feelings. Seemed Crowley was actually good for something after all.

"Yeah, you weren't here earlier," Sam chimed in eagerly.

"Oh, I just didn't want to disturb you," smiled Crowley. He poked curiously at the partially melted Santa Claus candle taking pride of place in the center of the table. "Hmm, reminds me of home," he muttered.

"No, I sneaked in while you were trying to hammer the wreath to the front door of this little chamber of horrors," he chuckled, before looking horribly smug. "The meadowsweet interferes with the wards. Magic's like medicine; you do have to watch out for the contraindications." Seeming to pause for a moment for maximum effect he went on to add, "I was surprised you didn't notice especially since it was so central to the summoning of those god-awful pagan gods that had the thing for Christmas. Oh, and your tooth and Dean's fingernail."

Dean gaped at him. "How the hell did you know about that?"

Crowley put on the smug look again, or rather, he dialed the usual smug look up a couple of notches. "I like to read to relax," he said, seeming to struggle not to laugh.

Dean positively sagged at the revelation. "Great. You've read them too."

"Oh indeed, I think you'll find that mine are _very_ well thumbed," said Crowley, huskily.

Sam shuddered and considered going for another shower.

"Anyway, I'm not here to talk about how I like to spend my downtime. Well, actually I'd like to discuss _our_ downtime."

"What are you babbling about? Whatever it is just spit it out!" Dean rubbed the back of his neck in agitation. The smug bastard just cocked that damn eyebrow at him in amusement. Dean just wanted him gone.

"No sense of theatre," muttered the demon with another world weary sigh that announced his resignation with the brothers. "Well, _thanks_ to your sterling efforts to make me human, and my somewhat dismal attempts to make us both a bit more demon," he said, gesturing between himself and Dean, "I thought the least you could do was host the little seasonal shindig I've been planning." Crowley grinned and Sam couldn't help but wonder if his teeth weren't somehow now pointier and sharper than they initially appeared.

"Shindig," Sam replied blankly.

Crowley rolled his eyes. " _Yes!_ Soirée, reception, party; whatever you oafs want to call it. Do try to keep up, Moose. You _are_ supposed to be the intelligent one, you know."

"Hey!" cried Dean in outrage.

Crowley leaned forward and patted Dean tenderly on the cheek. "Don't get all upset, my pet. After all those good times we spent together, you should know you'll always be my favorite." He wisely moved back, removing his hand before he lost it, but smiled in triumph at rendering both brothers speechless.

Crowley spun slowly in place, making a grandiose gesture at their surroundings. "All these decorations got me to thinking. We've been through a lot together over the years. Maybe now's the time to foster a closer working relationship and what better way is there to do that than Christmas?"

Dean turned the full force of all his years in Hell and the pure-demonic power of the Mark of Cain into the laser-eyed glare that he threw in his brother's direction. Sam visibly wilted under the weight of that stare. "And _this_ is why we _don't_ do Christmas," Dean hissed with murderous intent. He rounded on Crowley. "Why should we do some stupid party for you?"

"Oh, good grief! No, Squirrel. I've ambitions greater than some plaid-themed, dime-store travesty. No, I'll organize all the arrangements; we'll just have it here. All you have to do is just turn up and look pretty... Oh, and er, preferably not kill anybody." Misinterpreting the filthy look Dean gave him, he backtracked slightly. "Well, no one who didn't really have it coming," he amended.

Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder to calm the boiling anger of an immediate rebuke. "So, if we do this, what's in it us?" he asked, narrowing his eye suspiciously in what Dean always dubbed the 'earnest-trainee, lawyer face'. Sam didn't have the slightest intention of acquiescing to Crowley's request, but he had to admit he was still curious.

"Well, apart from the kudos of hosting the most exclusive supernatural event of the year, an opportunity to meet and mingle with some of the most influential non-humans on the planet?"

"Huh, just a bunch of stuck-up monsters that are in search of a good ganking," retorted Dean.

"You'll never get anywhere with those old patterns of bigotry," sighed Crowley. "But I wish you'd reconsider, if only for the free food and drink..." he trailed off, distracted by the flickering of the bunker's lights and belatedly wondering if he should have triple-checked for any additional devil's traps added since his last... _visit_.

Sam looked at his brother anxiously; a gaze that only seemed to become more intense as Dean appeared increasingly thoughtful. Sam knew from bitter experience that for the stomach on legs that was his brother, and someone who had grown up always hungry and never sure if, or how, the next meal was coming, the prospect of a free meal was almost impossible for Dean to turn down.

"Okay," said Dean after appearing to go through some kind of lengthy, but obviously faulty, internal dialog.

"Dean, you can't be serious?" cried Sam, aghast.

"What? You think food just grows on trees?" Dean paused as he considered what he'd just said and scowled Sam, his mouth already half-open with the inevitable correction, into silence. "You know what I mean! Plus, you said you wanted to celebrate Christmas."

"Oh, now he decides to do what I want," muttered Sam sulkily, but he was far too self-aware to put any real feeling behind his words.

"But we get to invite some of our own guests, and I reserve the right to gank anyone who steps outta line," added Dean, waving an admonishing finger at Crowley.

The demon just shrugged, making little attempt at hiding his glee. "I'm sure everyone will be on their best behavior," he smirked.

"Yeah, you wish," snorted Dean, gazing skeptically at the lights that were flickering again, already beginning to regret his decision.

"I'll get right on it," said Crowley, with possibly the biggest smirk the Winchesters had ever seen stretched across his face.

~#~

"I feel like a damn monkey in a suit," complained Dean, as he strode into the library. He looked around in disgust and grabbed a glass from one of the minor demons serving canapés and champagne. He couldn't but snigger on noticing the waiter was currently standing trapped and forlorn having accidentally stepped into one of the brass devil's traps inlaid into the bunker's parquet flooring.

"Shh," hushed Sam, motioning to one of the guests who was drinking what looked like a banana daiquiri straight from the pitcher. "You'll upset Sun Wukong," he hissed, looking around to smile apologetically at the monkey king.

"I think you look most presentable, not at all simian," said Castiel, in that strange, intensely earnest way he always seemed to adopt when talking to Dean.

"Uh, thanks Cas, high praise indeed. So, I thought they'd all be demons," said Dean dryly, casting an eye over the crowd and changing the subject quickly with only the hint of a flush.

"Oh, do credit me with _some_ taste," complained Crowley, untangling himself from the arms of two giggling young _things_. "Too many of my own contingent, so to speak, and it's all power plays and knives in the back. And that's no way to have a good time, well, when on the receiving end, anyway. No, it's far better to have just a few select colleagues and acquaintances from other pantheons."

Sam cast a nervous side eye in Dean's direction. "The last time we were invited to a multi-faith get together, it didn't exactly go well."

"Yeah, especially for Gabriel," Dean added darkly.

Sam didn't respond, but his jaw did tighten and he scanned the other occupants of the room with greater diligence.

Crowley meanwhile had moved on to glare at the nearby source of the loud rattling of chains that was disrupting the gentle elegance and refined air of the live music; a string quartet made up of two harpies, a tengu, and -- despite not having any physical hands or arms -- a will o'the wisp.

"Do try to keep it down over there, Fenrir, there's a _good boy_ ," Crowley hissed at a feral looking young man, barely out of his teens, who looked every inch the archetypal bad boy with his leather jacket, scruff and over-styled hair.

Fenrir glared back with equal ferocity, but pulled his oddly delicate-looking chains closer around him before going back to his systematic devouring of the contents of the buffet table.

"Wow, he's got quite an appetite, hasn't he?" laughed Dean.

"You don't know the half of it," growled the manwolf, giving one of the most disturbing, appreciative glances Dean had ever been on the receiving end of.

"Yes, well, luckily there's plenty of _food_ ," said Crowley in a prissy tone, seeming more directed at Fenrir, while putting an arm around Dean's shoulder and guiding him away from the table.

Fenrir glared after them before turning his gaze on Sam. "You're Sam Winchester?"

Sam nodded, too taken aback to say anything. Fenrir's expression softened. "Dad used to talk about you all the time," he added with an almost-smile, before turning back to the food with gusto.

Sam decided he definitely needed another drink.

~#~

A regal looking woman, with emerald green eyes and long black hair, standing taller than Sam, strode into the room and gazed around admiring. "The lair of the Men of Letters! Not bad, Crowley, not bad," she cried in a lyrical, strong Irish accent.

"Glad you approve," said Crowley dryly, raising his glass in salute. The demon tried to hide it well, but it was clear to Dean that he was glowing under the unfamiliar praise.

"Wow, would you look at her," murmured Dean.

Sam just looked confused and strained to make out the subject of his brother's sudden admiration. "What? Who?"

The woman rounded on Dean with an intense, viper-like interest. "Well, well, look at you, and you can see me clearly too, can't you?" she purred. "So who among us has already claimed _you_ then?" She ran her hands possessively down Dean's arms and stopped at his elbow. "Ooh, and what do we have here?"

Dean stared at her wide-eyed and speechless as she traced the shape of the Mark of Cain, despite that it was hidden under the layers of a dress shirt and jacket.

"You know, I'm quite the hunter too. You should join _my_ hunt; a man like you would fit right in at the Unseelie Court."

A silver-blond man -- taller even than the huntress -- slapped Dean on the ass as he walked pass to join their group. "Good to see you again, Dean," he said with a cheeky wink as he moved to stand by the woman, although his face twisted and he didn't look pleased to see her. "Oh, Maeve, I was rather hoping you wouldn't come. Or were dead..."

"Oh, move on, Obie; figuratively and literally," drawled the woman.

There was a sudden, loud cough that interrupted their argument, and Dean also turned as the weight of a possessive hand landed on his shoulder.

" _Castiel!_ What an unexpected pleasure. I was just talking to your champion," said Maeve, seemingly honestly pleased to see the angel, judging from the warmth of her greeting.

"You know each other?" asked Dean in surprise.

"You might say we were cousins, of a sort," replied Castiel, cryptically.

"Kissing cousins," smiled Maeve, leaning forward and laying a chaste peck on the corner of Castiel's mouth. "The offer to join us is equally applicable to you too, cousin. You've more than demonstrated that you are truly one of us."

Castiel inclined his head in polite acknowledgement. "My place is in Heaven. I don't think I would suit either the Summer or Winter Courts," he added including Obie in his response, who shrugged and moved on to mingle with the other guests.

Maeve leaned in again with a sly smile, "And yet you're still here," she breathed, running a hand down the side of his face. "Well, the offer is always there," she called airy as she sashayed off after Obie.

"What the Hell was that about?" demanded Dean.

"The Fae were once the fallen angels that wouldn't side with either God or Lucifer."

"Well, she seemed to like you," said Sam wide-eyed, but still not sure what he'd seen.

"This bunch of freaks isn't what I'd had in mind when I agreed to this damn party. I wouldn't wish them on my worst enemy."

Sam was distracted from his brother's outburst by the odd flickering of the lights and the strange noises coming from behind the library door. Immediately, his hunter senses were on high alert. While there were a number of guests and it was difficult to keep track of them all, he did at least think that most of them were in the main meeting area.

Leaving his brother behind to bicker -- or whatever it was -- with the angel, he moved nearer to the door. He tensed at the muffled sound of someone snorting in derision: "Ha, well that's just plain wrong, damn _idjits_."

Eyes widening in reaction to the familiar voice, Sam swung open the door. He came to a sudden halt and stood in shock at the sight of a living, breathing Bobby Singer browsing through the books.

The older hunter noticed the new arrival. "What are you gawping at? And while we're..." Whatever Bobby had intended to say next was lost as he was involved in a high-impact, bone-crushing bear hug. "Erk! Try'na breathe here!" he managed to choke out.

"Bobby, it's you! But how? What?" Sam babbled in excitement.

Bobby frowned. "It's good to see you too, Sam. But aren't you forgetting something?"

"Ah. Right, yeah. Sorry," said Sam blushing, well-aware of Bobby's affectionate eye-rolling, as he proceeded to go through the usual -- if belated -- hunter greeting ritual of holy water, salt, and silver dagger. "So, it's great to see you an' all, but how come you're here?"

"Beats me, one minute I'm picnicking with Karen, the next I'm in this library. I mean, I thought the Campbell's had an impressive collection of lore, but this..." He shook his head in wonder. "What is this place, anyway?"

"It's a long story," sighed Sam. "Listen, we should get back to Dean."

"Well lead on, son," agreed Bobby, exclaiming in awe as they passed by some of the items on display. "Wait, are we still in Heaven? The way you're dressed... And this place is like a cross between a supernatural Library of Congress and the Batcave."

Sam paused, clearing his throat awkwardly as he tried to think of a way to explain. At a loss for words under Bobby's piercing gaze he decided to just throw open the doors and let the chips land where they will.

Bobby's eyes flickered across the array of weird and inhuman guests, cataloging but not stopping until he reached...

"Crowley," spat Bobby, his mouth twisting in disgust.

Dean pushed away from where Kevin, Ellen and Jo were crowded around him and pulled the older man into a fierce hug.

There was a loud knock and a red haired head poked around the main door. "Apparently there's a party?" said Charlie by way of introduction.

Sam and Dean looked up in delight, only for their expression to drop at the sight of the tall, cadaverously thin man standing behind her.

"So it would seem," answered Death, with an eyebrow arched in the direction of many of the formerly-dead guests. "You won't mind if I drop in uninvited, will you?" he added in a tone that made it quite clear that the question was rhetorical.

~#~

"Don't look at _me_ ," complained Crowley, holding up his hands, "For once I'm not to blame for these shenanigans."

"Yeah, except nothing happened until you turned up," retorted Sam, "and don't think I didn't notice how suspicious it was that Dean agreed to this in the first place."

"Well, that's not quite true is it?" said Dean in a dry voice.

"What? You totally caved to Crowley!"

"No, not that," said Dean, blushing furiously for reasons he couldn't quite say, while waving away the comment. "I meant, it's not the only thing that's changed," he added, making a wide gesture at the decorations with which Sam had earlier decked the halls of the bunker.

As if on cue, the lights flickered and glimmered in response to the movement.

"Oh, forgive me for wanting you to get into the holiday spirit," spat Sam.

"Okay. Don't worry about it, Sammy," Dean smiled dreamily, raising his drink in salute.

"There's definitely some ancient wishing magic at work here," observed Maeve, noting the change in Dean's attitude and behavior with interest. She turned to Castiel with a shrewd look. "I wish you'd come join my Court." She gave an elegant shrug when all she got in response was an unimpressed glare. "Can you blame me for trying? Besides, it proves what I'm sensing, that whatever it is, it's near the end of its life."

Death turned around from where he'd been sampling the canapés on offer from the still trapped, but now terrified, demon waiter, to find all eyes on him. "Don't expect me to do anything. From my point of view you're _all_ near the end of your life," he said mildly, helping himself to a glass of champagne.

"That may explain why the effects are so intermittent," observed Castiel, relieved to note that Dean's dopey grin had completed its gradual transformation into the more usual extreme scowl he reserved for being in demonic company.

They were distracted from any further conversation by a loud crashing, banging sound coming from the entrance hall.

Following the noise, they found a man trying to get out by pounding on the main door of the bunker with a large spear.

The man was dressed in a simple loin cloth and sandals, although one of his feet appeared to be made of some dark, highly reflective stone. When he turned towards them, it was to reveal he had a large horizontal black line painted across his face. "Crowley!" he yelled. "I wanna go for a smoke, but I can't get this damn door open."

"Just a minor inconvenience. Tezcatlipoca, old chum. We'll soon sort it out," soothed Crowley, gently. He tried the door himself. "It's definitely locked up tighter than a nun's bad habit."

"So what do we do?" asked Sam.

Charlie yelped from where she'd try to pry some of the decorations from the wall. She held up a hand, displaying an angry red welt. "I don't think it likes me," she cried, plaintively.

"You know that mistletoe is actually a parasite that feeds off the host it grows on?" offered Jo, as they made their way back to the main living area.

"Ah, but it's romantic," sighed Charlie, as she nodded her thanks to Castiel for healing the damage to her hands. "Kissing under the mistletoe," she added with a cheeky wink in Dean's direction.

Dean just rolled his eyes in response; it seemed she really was the little sister he never wanted. Okay, _did_ want. He guessed that in her eyes that made him a safe bet for fake flirting, but she was still like a sister for Heaven's sake.

Jo snorted. "I'm guessing you never had to spend each Christmas dodging a bunch of drunk, over-handsy losers."

"They weren't all that bad," murmured Ellen with a distant smile as she was briefly lost in some happy memories.

"Gross! And you only think that 'cause they were all terrified of you, Mom," cried Jo. She looked around for support and laughed at finding Bobby, Sam, and Dean all nodding their firm agreement. "When no one was looking, I used to have to grab a chair to reach up and pull off all the berries."

Charlie's puzzled frown faded as she was struck by sudden understanding, "Oh, I get it! You only kiss while there are still berries. Go girl!" She chuckled, high-fiving Jo.

"This still doesn't solve our immediate problem," said Sam, trying to get everyone to focus.

"Don't look at me, I'm just here for the snacks," said Death. "And, apparently, as the designated driver," he added, with a brief, weary glance at the formerly-dead guests, who had now all managed to find themselves a drink, although there with no real venom in his voice and possibly even a faint hint of amusement.

"Help yourself," offered Dean, passing a plate of deep-fried mozzarella sticks which Death took with a nod of thanks. The fact that the food was Crowley's served only to make Dean feel even more munificent than usual. "Of course, if you have any suggestions..." he added, pausing midway through passing the cranberry dip.

Death deftly retrieved the bowl and made a point of dipping and eating a mozzarella stick before carefully wiping his mouth. "Your decorations seem to be ensorcelled. Rather than cursed, the intention appears to have meant to bring 'happiness and good cheer'," said Death with an odd look of longing accompanying the tone of slight contempt. "And since it's got no more than a couple of hours left I suggest you just let it run its course."

"You mean carry on with the party?" asked Sam, incredulously.

"Why not? It's not like anyone can leave otherwise," shrugged Death nonchalantly, neatly scooping up another couple of mozzarella sticks.

"Awesome," said Dean with every ounce of sarcasm he had available. "Why do I feel like we're all fiddling while Rome burns?"

"Well, you fiddle away all you want, Squirrel. In the meantime, let's get a few more drinks, shall we?" said Crowley, clapping his hands in glee while motioning for Sam to release the wait staff from the devil's trap.

"Come on," urged Charlie, slipping her arm through Dean's. "You could do with letting your hair down a little," she added, while leading him to one of the team games.

"This is marvelous," exclaimed Obie. "I don't think we've ever before managed to get to the point of picking teams without bloodshed."

~#~

Despite it putting him on the losing team, Dean was surprisingly proud to see that Castiel managed to dominate the game of charades. It really seemed that Metatron had read, watched, or at least listened, to every low and highbrow entertainment of cultural significance. _Good to know the little twerp was good for something_ , he thought, gazing over at a happy and relaxed looking Castiel.

"What?" asked Castiel, noting the attention.

Dean shook his head. "Nothing," he smiled, "it's just good to see you looking happy for a change."

Castiel reached forward and grabbed hold of Dean's shoulder. Something passed through Dean at realizing it was _that_ shoulder. "You too," he said, with the usual intense stare.

Crowley stepped between them breaking the moment. "Come on boys, prezzie time," he smirked, as he went on to call everyone together.

"What's this?" asked Sam suspiciously, as a bowl of small pieces of folded paper was waved under his nose.

"Dirty Santa," said Crowley, as if that explained everything.

Dean looked over at the ferocious, tusk-toothed giant in the green, blood-streaked suit, who was currently slumped in the corner and drooling down himself after having passed out following an earlier ale-drinking contest against Death and Fenrir.

"No, not _that_ Santa! It's a bit like secret Santa... but with more conniving," laughed Crowley.

Dean watched on, amazed at the sheer level of deviousness and strategy that the guests displayed in order to win their favorite of what were, effectively, less than $10 gifts.

The crazy thing was that they all seemed to think that they'd won. He shook his head at the ridiculousness of it all as he patted his luxury, deep-filled apple pie with rich-butter crust to reassure himself it was still there.

~#~

"What do you mean, we still can't leave yet?"

"Well, the Queen of the Sídhe was correct when she said that the magic was on the way out," explained Death, patiently. "It is love and, primarily, fertility magic -- not really my specialty -- so I can't just switch it off. The problem is that whoever activated it didn't follow the correct ritual."

"Ritual?" swallowed Sam nervously.

Maeve's face split into a wide grin worthy of any leviathan. "I believe the young huntress already mentioned the kissing part."

Death nodded, "Exactly."

Bobby sighed loudly and at length. "So which of you two idjits stood under the mistletoe and didn't kiss?"

"Hey!" cried both of the Winchesters in unison. "What makes you think it was us?" came the objection from an offended Sam.

Bobby gave his best, withering 'no BS' look.

Dean was lost in thought. "Just after you woke me up at the ass crack of dawn this morning... I might have thought the mistletoe glowed for moment."

"What?" cried a number of those present.

Dean shrugged with a self-conscious grimace, the tips of his ears turning red. "I couldn't really see them properly," he muttered.

"Ha!" cried Sam triumphantly. "I knew it! I've been saying you needed glasses!"

Dean scowled. "I was just tired, and anyway this is all your fault!"

"My fault?" screeched Sam. " _I'm_ not the one who literally can't see what's right in front of him!"

"Enough!" shouted Ellen, making everyone jump and reducing Sam and Dean to mortified silence. "While it wouldn't be Christmas without at least one family argument, this isn't helping."

"Yeah, Sam," muttered Dean, mutinously.

"Dean! You're not too old I won't spank you!"

Dean shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. "Sorry, Ellen," he said, clearing his throat.

"So you just need to go kiss Sam and then this should all be over!" declared Charlie, brightly.

"What?!" cried both brothers, once more in unison.

"Well, from what you've said so far, this would certainly seem to be the case," said Crowley, but he seemed unhappy about it.

"Go take one for the team," called Jo.

"I expected better from you, given what you said earlier," grumbled Dean.

Jo shrugged, but didn't look the slightest bit sorry.

"I'd suggest you kiss under the specific mistletoe you mentioned," said Death. "But hurry up, as enjoyable as this has all been, I do have places to be, you know."

~#~

Dean slunk back into the room some time later, followed at a distance by Sam who was so hunched over and curled in on himself that he almost appeared to be the smaller brother. Neither Winchester looked at one another, nor made eye contact with any of the waiting, expectant guests.

"Well?"

"It didn't work!" shouted Dean.

"Oh my, and lo the dreams of tens of thousands of fan girls were dashed," muttered Charlie to herself.

"Don't start with me," warned Dean.

Charlie gulped and stepped back. Dean could be quite scary at times and she certainly wasn't used to that anger being directed at her.

"Dude, don't shout at Charlie, it's _my_ fault we're in this mess," moaned Sam, pitifully.

Dean looked contrite and immediately the rage let out of him like air out of a balloon. "Sorry Charlie," he said gently. Instead, he rounded on his brother. "Would it have hurt for you to have had a breath mint, or some gum, or something? Did you just eat _every_ damn spicy or garlicky thing you could find first?" grumbled Dean.

"I dunno, did you _have_ to use tongue?" countered Sam.

Jo couldn't help but splutter out a swiftly-stifled laugh, while Bobby looked away awkwardly when he inadvertently locked eyes with Crowley.

"I was just being thorough," said Dean, defensively, his face heating up to an impressive shade of crimson. "Nothing seemed to be happening."

"Thank God," muttered Sam, still traumatized. "Although, I think you might actually have loosened one of my fillings."

"Magic's all about intent," piped up Maeve. "Can you remember who, or what, you were thinking about at the time?"

Dean paused with an uncharacteristic expression; a little like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

Sam snorted.

"I need to clear my head," snapped Dean, as he stalked from the room.

"Let him go," said Crowley, quietly. He seemed to perk up, suddenly. "Besides, we've more team games to play!"

~#~

Sam wiped some of the excess slime from his shirt sleeves with a shudder of disgust, but he couldn't help but feel a small sense of pride at being the overall winner. Until he'd stepped in, Cthulhu had dominated the earlier rounds of Twister, but obviously hadn't counted on the patented Winchester head-lock.

The many-tentacled Great Old One had since decided that it was way past his bedtime and had retreated to an endless slumber in the ensuite tub of one of the spare bedrooms, although Sam suspected that he was just a sore loser.

Any further thoughts of power and supremacy over all things was briefly forgotten at the sight of his brother. "Dean!" His brother glanced up, looking thoroughly disheveled and somewhat stunned; a dopey smile stretched across his face, while his hair --recently so carefully coifed and well styled -- stood up in all directions.

"Are you okay?"

Dean gave the barest of nods. "I, er..." He coughed and cleared his throat. "...figured it out," he added, finally.

"And?"

Dean paused. "A gentleman never kisses and tells, Sammy," he smiled, already walking away.

"You're no gentleman," Sam called after his brother's back, while Kevin, Jo, and Charlie exploded into giggles.

~#~

"Thank you, as ever, for a most entertaining and diverting evening," said Death, nodding his thanks with the almost-but-not-quite smile he often seemed to adopt when speaking to Dean. "But as ever, all things must come to an end." He motioned for the others to say their goodbyes.

"We still keep an eye out for you, y'know," Bobby grumbled, wiping some dust from his eyes. "I just got my place up there looking the way I like it, and I don't need you two yahoos coming by and messing it up."

They nodded their understanding before being swept up in a fierce mama-bear hug from Ellen, who was too choked to speak.

Kevin had hung back until the last moment. "I don't blame you, you know," he said, awkwardly. "So don't blame yourselves, either. You can't always save everyone; sometimes all you can do is just try to save yourself," he added his eyes glistening, the last comment aimed primarily at Dean.

"Yeah, we're watching you two dumbasses," Jo added, swooping in to lighten the mood. "And, just so as you know, we're reading up on your past exploits too."

"I'm really gonna throttle Chuck," muttered Dean. "It's bad enough those books leaked online, now you're telling me the weasel's mouthing off upstairs?"

"The writer promised there'd be no more," Sam explained to Jo. "Although apparently some of his unpublished works leaked online, but how did you read them?"

"What? You thought Heaven didn't have the Internet?" She laughed in the face of their shocked expressions. "The Wi-Fi speeds are to die for!" she called out to Sam with a wink as they all gradually faded from view.

~#~

Sam sat back, exhausted, relieved that most of the guests had departed and those that hadn't seemed to be preparing to make a move.

It had been a long, emotionally-draining day. Saying goodbye again to Bobby, Kevin, Ellen, and Jo had been particularly tough, but it had been somewhat reassuring to know they were happy and safe where they were.

He was distracted from his introspection at the sight of Crowley stalking back into the room, trailed at a distance by Castiel. Sam realized it had been quite some time since he'd seen either of them.

"What have you two been up to?" He asked curiously.

Crowley scowled. "Tidying up." He prodded Castiel on the arm. "Next time perhaps you could wait until they've finished for the night _before_ you exorcise the staff?"

Castiel looked unperturbed. "They were a little confused about what had happened to them, but I dropped them all off safely."

"Feathers here told them it was a minor case of amnesia brought on by close proximity to marsh gas," snorted Crowley, disparagingly.

"Give the reality of the situation, is it any less believable?"

"So neither of you were with Dean earlier?" probed Sam. He'd had his suspicions, but he knew his brother would never man up -- no pun intended -- and tell him himself.

"Wonderful party," declared Maeve, cutting in before either of the suddenly discomforted looking men could answer. "We must do this again! Shall we say the next one's at mine? Do bring your boys." She smiled at Sam, "You'll like it in my domain, the parties go on for _years_."

"The revelers don't age until they leave," warned Castiel. "They're literally the life and soul of the party."

Maeve pouted. "What are you worrying about? A fine specimen like this one would be good for at least a decade or two," she declared, swatting Sam on the backside as she made her exit.

"Hey Sammy, looks like you've still got it with the old broads," teased Dean, rejoining them.

"So, Dean," said Crowley. "I bought you something special, given our recent time together." He handed Dean a small, decorative box.

Looking a little nervous, Dean untied the decorative ribbon and lifted the lid. Peering at the contents he turned a sudden and quite remarkable shade of crimson.

"I thought it would bring back happy memories of our 'howl at the moon' time together," said Crowley in his usual smug rasp.

Castiel meanwhile had looked over Dean's shoulder curiously, only for his jaw to tighten and for his gaze to rocket up into a glare of epic intensity as he made out the contents of the box. At Crowley's words that piercing laser gaze had transferred to the demon.

"I think you've broken Dean," observed Sam. He didn't bother to attempt to catch a glimpse of the gift. He'd learned his lesson; there was no way in Heaven (or Hell) or earth that he was ever going to try to discover the contents. He suspected there wasn't enough brain bleach in existence to get over it if he did. Even that thought -- with its implications that there _was_ something to block out -- was a thought too far.

Although Sam wondered if he should intervene or keep out of it; he was fairly sure that Castiel's wings were beginning to manifest.

"So is now not a good time to talk about doing something for New Year's Eve?" asked Crowley, sweetly.

**THE END**

(;,;)


End file.
